


A long, prolonged, derangement

by chimosa



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Asexuality, Empathy, M/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 08:48:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/847596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chimosa/pseuds/chimosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will’s been in and out of therapy all of his life, long enough to have had the word asexual thrown about by doctors less qualified than Hannibal.  It’s a word Will shies away from; it’s not like he needs yet another part of himself labeled as <i>different</i>.</p>
<p>  <i>Written for a hannibalkink prompt</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	A long, prolonged, derangement

**Author's Note:**

> “I believe in a long, prolonged, derangement of the senses in order to obtain the unknown.”  
> ― Jim Morrison

“You could not save poor Margaret Lizzer?” Hannibal asks, wrists bent, adjusting a cufflink. Not that it needs adjusting, of course. The man is wholly incapable of ever looking anything but orderly. 

“No,” Will says, his darting eyes coming to rest on the precise movements of Hannibal’s nimble fingers. It’s a soothing dance, the ballet of his hands, and Will finds himself strangely lulled as he watches.

“And how does that make you feel?”

It’s the classic analysts’ question and Will should know; he’s been asked it by every therapist that has ever tried to pick apart his mind. Hannibal is usually above such banal tricks and Will snorts to show his opinion of this lack of finesse. Still, he finds himself answering, almost unconsciously as he watches Hannibal’s hands, now smoothing down his pristine tie. 

“Like a failure,” Will says, voice as dry as those red wines Hannibal is partial to. He means to leave it there but his mouth opens again and he finds words spilling out, words that he meant to keep as buried down deep as any number of other repressed, unhealthy thoughts. Self-loathing, after all, is part of Will’s charm. 

_How would you even recognize me without it,_ he had once asked Alana when she had scolded him for some self-deprecating comment or other. 

At first Hannibal’s hands, like everything else about the psychiatrist, had annoyed Will. Hannibal’s fingers were too precise, like a magician showing he very obviously had nothing up his sleeve. It instantly made Will suspicious, wondering what it was that Hannibal was trying to deflect his attention away from. 

Lately, though, Will can feel his hostility melting away with each scheduled session and impromptu breakfast. More and more he finds himself relaxing in the other man’s presence. At first, it’s imperceptible, but enough time has passed that Will can see the gestures for what they are. It’s like coaxing a stray dog, showing each movement in its entirety, from start to finish. _You can trust me,_ they say. _See? I have nothing to hide._

With a jolt, Will realizes that Hannibal is no longer sitting directly across from him. He is at his desk, reaching for his appointment book. Will watches as he turns a page, intentionality telegraphed in every motion. _Nothing to hide,_ Will thinks again, wiping sweat-damp palms on the wrinkled fabric of his pants. His throat is sore, like he’s been talking for the entire hour, but he has no idea what he’s been saying. 

Will wonders if he ought to mention he’s lost time again but, as the pen in Hannibal’s fingers flicks across the page with a flourish, he figures Dr. Lecter’s as good a person to lose it to as anyone.

“Next week?” Hannibal asks and Will just nods. 

***

Hannibal’s eyes are brown. It’s a revelation, when Will realizes it. 

For so long he’s imagined they would look like the rest of the man: cool and aloof. Grey like the sky in winter or perhaps blue, like the lips of the asphyxiated body Will should be analyzing. 

Instead, he is staring at the intense intelligence glinting from Hannibal’s eyes. Brown, the color of rain-soaked tree bark. 

Beverly has to kick his shin twice before Will realizes everyone is looking at him, waiting on him to speak. Will buys time by clearing his throat.

***

“Will,” Hannibal says and he stills at the sound of his name. “Stay.”

It’s less of a request than it is a command and Will finds himself obeying, like the attention-starved mutt that he is. _His Master’s Voice._

***

There’s a faint stirring of air by Will’s ear, the proverbial butterfly’s wings that Will can feel like a hurricane. Such a small thing, and yet as Will stares at his ceiling at night he can’t stop remembering, wondering what it is that Hannibal can smell on him. _Does madness have an odor?_ he finds himself asking as the shadows in his room slip away, sunlight chasing them into their separate corners as the birds outside trill, preparing for a new day.

It’s chaos theory in effect.

***

Hannibal’s hunger is a tangible thing. It is tucked away, lurking underneath the vestments of humanity he cloaks himself in, but now in this moment it is ferocious. Will’s shoulder is tasted with the swipe of a tongue and the expanse of his chest is similarly sampled. There is a graze of teeth across the skin of his carotid artery and Will loses himself to the sensation. 

It is a relief to be consumed, to let Hannibal’s desire wash over him in crashing waves. Will is submerged and his own lack of it is inconsequential compared to the unadulterated _want_ as Hannibal’s nimble hands open his belt with a flick of a wrist.

Will’s been in and out of therapy all of his life, long enough to have had the word asexual thrown about by doctors less qualified than Hannibal. It’s a word Will shies away from; it’s not like he needs yet another part of himself labeled as _different_. He wonders if Hannibal has reached a similar diagnosis after all the hours they have spent together, if that’s why he doesn’t seem surprised when Will’s boxers are peeled down his thighs. Will opens his mouth, to explain or maybe apologize, he isn’t sure which. It doesn’t matter, at any rate, as Hannibal’s lips are trailing along the crease of Will’s thigh, following it until Will can feel the brush of Hannibal’s cheek against his limp cock. 

When Hannibal hums, pleased, Will has trouble catching his breath. It’s a heady thing, to be a buffet for a man with as developed a palate as Dr. Hannibal Lecter. It is made even better by the fact that Will doesn’t have to say anything, can just lay back and soak in Hannibal’s touch. Hannibal’s mouth is at Will’s naval and Will lets his eyes flutter closed. The pendulum swings but this time there’s no blood to clear away, no corpse’s eyes to open. Instead there is only Hannibal, his need, and Will can feel the burn of it as Hannibal’s refracted sensations settle in his own belly. 

When Hannibal’s cock pushes inside of him it isn’t gentle, but Will would be disappointed if it had been. The razor’s edge of pain and pleasure is a sweet balance, and Will’s head hits the wall with each thrust from Hannibal’s hips. He is taken, he is possessed, and Will’s eyes burn as sweat from Hannibal’s brow soaks through his eyelashes, the salty sting as sharp as tears. With every ragged inhale Will can smell the friction of their bodies, the musk of Hannibal’s skin. Broad hands surround his head. Hannibal’s palms cover his ears while impossibly strong thumbs press bruises along Will’s jaw. He can’t hear past the pressure of those hands, but he doesn’t need to. He can hear through Hannibal’s ears the sounds Hannibal fucks out of him. 

Through that thing Hannibal calls empathy and Will calls a curse, he can taste the other man’s pleasure, the thrill of having Will underneath him at last. 

“You played hard-to-get long enough,” Will says and can feel Hannibal’s chuckle against his skin as the other man recognizes his own thoughts in Will’s mouth. Suddenly blunt fingernails are cutting into Will’s flank, skin breaking as they gasp in unison. Will holds absolutely still and he can feel the far-away shudder of Hannibal’s cock, deep inside of him and for Will, it’s enough. 

It’s more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written a sex scene in a very long time. Here's hoping it's like riding a bicycle....
> 
> As always, feedback is as appreciated as an umbrella on a rainy day
> 
> ***  
> ETA: Also, for clarification, here's the prompt:
> 
> _Being asexual doesn't mean that Will can't have sex. It doesn't mean that he can't enjoy sex and it doesn't mean that he doesn't want to have sex._
> 
> _None of Will's previous partners have ever understood that. Thankfully, that's not the case with Hannibal._
> 
> _Hannibal knows that the physical pleasure is more of a side effect. That Will's pleasure stems from the intimacy - having Hannibal above and around him, being wrapped up in his presence, feeling Hannibal moving within him, invading all of his senses._
> 
> _Hannibal doesn't push Will to let him bring Will to orgasm (like Will's previous partners always did) because he knows that Will's satisfaction doesn't come from that, but instead comes from feeling Hannibal's own pleasure and emotions._
> 
> (http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/2246.html?thread=3119814#cmt3119814)


End file.
